


Domestic Bliss

by sparxwrites



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, M/M, Parties, Showers, Trans Castiel, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-16
Updated: 2013-08-16
Packaged: 2017-12-23 07:31:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/923601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparxwrites/pseuds/sparxwrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You didn’t have sex with me," says Castiel, the next morning, when they’re lying in bed together pressed hip-to-shoulder and watching the sun rise through the window opposite the end of Dean’s bed. It’s a tight fit for both of them, growing boys that they are, but they manage somehow, so close together they’re almost on top of each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Domestic Bliss

"You didn’t have sex with me," says Castiel, the next morning, when they’re lying in bed together pressed hip-to-shoulder and watching the sun rise through the window opposite the end of Dean’s bed. It’s a tight fit for both of them, growing boys that they are, but they manage somehow, so close together they’re almost on top of each other.

It takes a moment for Dean to reply, still half asleep, hair mussed and face pressed into the lines of Castiel’s ribs where he’s slid down the bed at some point in the night in a futile attempt to make more room for the both of them. “No,” he says absently, yawning, and Castiel bites back a smile when the brush of Dean’s lips and rather pathetic stubble against his skin tickles. “I didn’t. Obviously.” 

"…Why not?" asks Castiel hesitantly, as if unsure this is something he’s allowed to ask, as if he’s unsure if he’s going to upset Dean by asking - which is, in Dean’s opinion, utterly ridiculous. He doesn’t have time for Castiel’s anxious, tip-toeing bullshit right now, certainly not without coffee as a pick-me-up to drag him a little further into the land of the living.

Sometimes, he thinks Castiel’s almost  _afraid_  of his own identity, which is ironic, really, considering how he’d spent the first month or so of their relationship trying to convince Dean that there was nothing to be afraid of.

"Because you were blind fucking drunk and had pretty much no idea what you were saying, that’s why. How you don’t have the hangover to end all hangovers, man, seriously…" Dean slings a vaguely proprietary arm over Castiel’s stomach - annoyed with the way it was crushed between them - and hums contentedly when one of Castiel’s hands finds his hair, running pianist’s fingers through the sweat-stiff strands of it.

It’s mid-summer, the nights hot and long and full of parties, and they’re both unwashed with the smell of bodies and drink (and drugs and sex) clinging to them, remnants of last night before they’d staggered back to Dean’s. “Where the fuck Gabe even got that vodka-” He shakes his head a little, and this time Castiel does laugh, the rub of Dean’s nose against his side too ticklish to ignore. Dean grins. “‘Sides, first time I suck your cock, I want you to remember it.”

Castiel lets out something between a gasp and a disapproving noise, glad Dean isn’t looking, won’t see the colour high on his cheeks and tease him about it. He can’t help the fact that he didn’t grow up with John Winchester as a father and lewd jokes as the norm, can’t help that the casual way Dean talks about sex is something foreign to him. “You seem to be forgetting I don’t have one of those. Yet,” he adds, because he will, one day, is counting down the days to his eighteenth birthday and his first dose of T on the ridiculous  _Yoga Dogs_ calendar Balthazar had gotten him for Christmas.

"Course you do," says Dean, easily, yawning mid-sentence and breathing in the thick smell of aftershave and rank body from Castiel’s skin. He winces a little, decides they’re both getting in the shower at the first opportunity. "It’s just hiding. It’s only a teeny-tiny cock right now, but one day it’ll grow up big and strong, just like mine." He snorts at his own crude humour, doesn’t even need to look up to know Castiel to know his boyfriend’s rolling his eyes at him in fond exasperation.

"Ah, yes, the great Winchester penis you no doubt possess, big enough to put a horse to shame," says Castiel dryly, manages the word  _penis_  without flushing and blames it on Dean’s bad influence.  
"Damn straight," says Dean approvingly, kissing the curve of the rib nearest him to hide his grin, and sitting up reluctantly.

Castiel groans, clutches at the covers in an attempt to regain the warmth and softness stolen from him as Dean’s movement drags them away, revealing far more naked skin to the cool morning air than he wants. “Cold,” he complains absently, grabbing for Dean’s shoulder, but Dean shakes his head.

"Nope. Wakey-wakey time." He looks even worse than Castiel does - Castiel, at least, manages to retain relatively normal hair and fully-functioning eyelids after waking - but he’s determined through the vague slits that constitute his eyes right now. "I need some fucking coffee, and then we both need showers, and- shit, you slept with your binder on, your back’s going to be fucking  _killing_ you.”

It’s only when Dean mentions it that Castiel looks down, sees the white fabric stretched tight across his chest, and sighs. He’d forgotten, however temporarily, that he was wearing it, that his chest wasn’t naturally this flat and tight - although that’s going to change one day, too, he’s saving up, has done all the research on the best surgeons,  _one day_  - and the reminder that it’s all because of this thin piece of fabric is a temporary irritation. One that clears in favour of pain when he sits up because Dean’s right, his back is killing him, and  _ow_.

Dean winces at the tight, pinched look Castiel’s face gets the moment he sits up, shuffling up the bed and rubbing a hand across his eyes before asking, “May I?” and then carefully undoing the velcro of the binder when Castiel nods his assent.

The discomfort eases when Dean carefully slips the binder off and sets it on his bedside table, the pain in Castiel’s spine flaring sharply and then easing off again as he rolls his shoulders, but the irritating bounce of his breasts as he does so brings another scowl to his face. He knows his body can’t help being the wrong shape for him, any more than the hideous Christmas jumper some distant aunt sent him for his birthday a few years ago could help being the wrong shape, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t annoy him, doesn’t feel weirdly unreal and uncomfortably bizarre at times.

Something must show on his face, because Dean kisses the side of his neck gently a moment later, snakes an arm around his waist to hold him while he kisses across his shoulder blades and down the first few vertebrae of his spine. “C’mon,” he mumbles when he’s done, the set of Castiel’s shoulders eased a little by the careful body worship. “Shower time, because you smell gross. And then coffee.”

"Pot, kettle, black," mutters Castiel under his breath, which earns him an elbow from Dean, but he slides off the bed nonetheless, shedding his underwear as he walks towards the bathroom door - Sam and John are out, they’ve got the house to themselves for a week, no one else to see him. Dean follows him shortly afterwards, a small crash of knee against side table and muffled cursing announcing his dismount from the bed, and Castiel fights down the jealousy caused by the way Dean’s penis hangs free and comfortable between his legs a little more easily when Dean slips a hand into his and pulls him close for another kiss as they head towards the bathroom.

When they’re in the shower, together, they’ll laugh and cuddle close under the spray, Dean’s hair still mussed and his eyes still gummed shut despite the water, and Castiel will tell Dean that if this is the famous Winchester penis, then he’s a little underwhelmed. Dean will sulk, and Castiel will kiss him to make up, shampoo Dean’s hair and let Dean cover him in body wash, because he knows Dean’s hands won’t linger in places they’re not supposed to - and because Dean knows just where to press and rub on his back to push the tight knots of binder tension away.

And later, when they’re downstairs in the kitchen, making coffee and burnt pancakes in their boxers and shirts pulled from Dean’s wardrobe, laughing and teasing and dancing to the old rock songs on the radio, they’ll each look at the other and wonder how they managed to find the most perfect boyfriend in the world.


End file.
